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  • raika_ 9h

    Not putting my copyright because it is inspired from another human being's story, so her copyright though she will never read it.

    Also fellas, go easy on your parents, maybe? Give it a thought.

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    .

  • raika_ 3d

    ©raika

  • raika_ 4d

    Home has never been warm
    inspite of the fire in hearth
    that has blazed for a decade
    the walls are painted in doubt
    and mirrors in blame
    the closet does not have
    enough space for all the skins owned
    and drawers over flow with chaos
    the hallways echo of insecurity
    as personal space collapses
    between five w's and one h

    There's a happiness diffuser
    on ceiling of the lounge
    which doesn't work
    most days of the year
    and leaves behind
    barren hearts and plain faces
    and then some days it sprays
    happiness like it will never run out
    residents wear smiles and
    forget about hurting each other
    but it runs out very soon
    and other days it lets
    drops to seep out and
    diffuse into the air,
    a layer of happiness
    silently roams in the halls,
    the one we fail to notice,
    the one left unappreciated

    A house is more than four walls and a roof
    more than just rooms with keyholes
    it is not what you make of it
    it is what it does to you

    -raika

    @allbymyself @zohiii

    Random thought.

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    ©raika_

  • raika_ 5d

    when you were a child
    you were told not to
    pluck the roses from your
    grandmother's garden
    she waters them with love
    and talks to them with her heart
    but you plucked one
    every summer
    and hid it in your diary

    now the poems that you write
    have thorns in them
    but the words have
    a sweet fragrance
    that hides all the dullness
    those scars have left

    your grandmother hands you a rose
    but you turn it down
    you say the petals are precious
    for your sinful fingers
    but she insists and says

    'the thorns won't hurt you
    until you pester them to

    the ink is yours and
    flowers just a muse

    scars will fade away once you
    stop playing around with pain

    only seventeen out of forty-
    three muscles are required to smile

    poems don't define you,
    but you define your poems

    and letting yourself breath
    is not a sin, but a right'

    and you leave the garden
    with a tad bit of love
    in your heart,
    and a flower tucked
    behind your ear

    /you can't write your destiny but
    you can adorn it with
    poems are (p)roses/

    -raika

    Thankyou everyone, you made yesterday- 10th January' 2021 the best birthday I have ever had. Special thanks to everyone in @18letterstoraika @/nashedis @writersbay I love you guys. ❤️

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    ©raika_

  • raika_ 1w

    Monuments, centuries old
    all tell tales of people,
    kings, queens and slaves that lived
    within majestic walls of
    fame and torture;
    the dungeons have seen
    humans rot away alive
    and those buried in beds
    of white precious stone
    have lived in gold pennies
    and silver linings.

    We walk on steps,
    elephants laiden with royals
    have walked upon!
    Our heart races backwards in time,
    mind runs into a pile of wonder
    as fingers trace faded
    art patterns on walls
    and eyes gawk at portraits
    of those who lived,
    by those who lived.

    When was art born?
    Sometime, long before the lives
    of those who painted, constructed and carved
    stone into artifacts and hearts into stone.

    Gardens extend as far as eyes reach
    with harems on far ends of empires,
    of all the empresses of one (great?) emperor.

    History tells us a story,
    wealth saw those,
    who lived within castles
    and not even health
    saw those who
    lived in mud houses
    Pride brought down empires,
    wars killed humanity and
    selfishness ate up all the kings
    and now we walk
    amongst monuments,
    that cry more than they speak,
    tales of poisonous souls,
    that even killed the snakes when bitten
    and those with pure hearts
    were murdered by swords.

    And now we walk,
    between worn out walls,
    with a different poem in our head-
    twisted and wrecked,
    like our history.

    -raika

    @allbymyself @zohiii #rfav

    @mirakee @writersnetwork @/everyonewhoreads as sang says, I'll consider this an early birthday present. Thankyou very much.
    5/1/21

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    ©raika

  • raika_ 2w

    Happy new year everyone.

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    New beginnings

    As the soft fuschia sunlight waltzes over the gosammers on a conventional winter morning, the sparrows chirp a different melody to cut the red ribbon for a new day. The clouds of Christmas carols have ebbed away as the bright azure reflects a new beginning.

    With snow and sunlight quarrelling like the lovers in youth, to colour every nook of this new dawn with white and azure, finally, compromises to coalesce into a golden beginning. leaving some of the canvas hollow, welcoming us to paint it ourselves. Trail of lights and jingles left by Santa's sleigh, leading to the North Star overhead promises to lead us out of the gyre whenever  snow beneath feels treacherous. For, this is the prologue crafted out of our hands held together.

    Winter Jasmines bloom shyly as frost coloured in love, beauty and sensuality touches the petals, burying itself in them. Snow birds wear their new coat decorated with jewels, eyes laden with hope and they sing, hale and true- a melody of endings, for sunsets left behind and sunrises on their way while they place Heather crowns beaded with icicles on heads of their eggs.

    Mistletoes glimmer amidst sun kissed leaves as the dew garnishes everything with a new layer of gloss. Sunshine kisses the iced lakes and frames into a rainbow tinted crown on the new world. And languidly, the Christmas lights and scents mingle with dawn's luminescence as we let go off the blurred glimpses of yesternights and our hearts rekindle to embrace this aureate beginning. The snowflakes embellish our windowpanes with new patterns and the  world breathes in the dulcet aroma of winter flowers.

    Demurred musings whirl buoyant and bluffing nightfall doffs the vagaries, when the aurora forges surpassing hues of gray and cyan, the aeonian shaft rogitates rame. 0-dark-hundred bids adieu to brume while the sun brings lambent utopia.

    The uncaressed paintbrushes will pick up new shades and the marmoris will kiss up the new chapters happily waiting to be read.  The keen jingle of a new carol in every street and a clinquant hope whispering from every lip, is weaving some secret stories in the apricity of this new beginning, so gear up little darling, the magic of a new year is about to begin.

    Everything in nature wears the attire of hope, the hope of a new beginning, a start, arrival of a new year and the poignant ending of the year, with eyes that of a child, beholding new stationery and colour pencils. The sky picks up a various combination of colours ranging cantaloupe, medallion, sangria but chooses a shade of melancholic blue as her last identity. Sunsets are the cheapest dates anyone could afford inducing spirituality and peace in you; allowing you to self introspect and love selflessly.

    Nightmares had already arrived to horizon of sunset with kiss of stars decorating it with jewels of new sunrise.Escalating rainbow in sky  portrayed a chorus of new year verses with happiness under the lantern blending with glowing empty page of prosperity. Viridity of eunoia thoughts are blooming with irenic irony of limitless dreams and possibilities. Illecebrous lesson of time has begin with eyesome footsteps of universal divine. Gold coast of floral pattern is weaving the loom of diamond moonflower once again to hold our life together by rame moira.

    The doors you pushed close behind with all your remaining might, are still giving a way to the light you left behind, through the gaps. Stars would lend you some spark but do take that light along with you in search of grander doors through these long winter nights. Maybe the heart is still beating December but the way you survived all of it and managed to spread a carpet made of your smiles for January is meant to be cherished for years to come.

    Endings are overrated, and so is the pain after separation. but this time, i will rather make my sky bleed than crying over the promises of winter they made to me. I will rather let the warm snowflakes melt, than letting my heart to do the same over their rhymes. this time the freezing midnight to us will lead to a new dawn of sunlight.

    -Mahek, Amrutha, Raika, Aahana, Chaheti, Riya, Devika, Janhavi, Ketki, Sadiah

  • raika_ 2w

    @iamsleepy Happy birthday queen. I love you. :')

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    Neha: A melody

    She dances in a corner of the hall
    with poems tucked behind her ears
    and a pearl necklace wrapped
    around her neck, chokes her
    but she smiles and waves
    at the floating gowns
    across the ball room
    She smells of Azores Jasmines and
    her black ball gown, decorated with
    beads of love, tears, pain and
    a faded lace of memories
    shines brighter than
    any star ever shone
    Her hair tied up in a beautiful bun
    hiding all the strands of self guilt
    and she wears a crown of
    Wᵢₗₜₑd fₗₒwₑᵣₛ
    proudly around her forehead
    she avoids eyes and stares
    but she'd gift you a verse
    wrapped in a pristine silk cloth
    everytime you talk to her
    and she'd pick you up
    every time you stumble
    on your heels
    she'll smile at you like
    you didn't fall, but rose
    and if they break,
    she'll give you her white sandals
    and walk barefoot into the garden

    She hums a song,
    along the birds
    and dances
    along butterflies
    She is a melody
    delicate and true
    hidden behind pop songs
    the one you remember
    always

    a queen of metaphors//

    -someone who loves you

    31ꜱᴛ ᴅᴇᴄᴇᴍʙᴇʀ, 2020

  • raika_ 2w

    Wallflower

    Standing by the wall
    He sips through a long flute glass
    Eyes on chandelier

    And he weaves a verse
    With leftover metaphors
    And a dark blue thread

    People in dresses
    Shiny like the stars gawk at
    The poem he held

    He places it on
    A golden neck of red rose
    And he shies away

    Leaving behind a
    Trail of rhymes he disappears
    Among the grey skies

    He listens to the
    Rants and chants; dull and lucid
    From behind the clouds

    People in dresses
    Serene like the moon, listen
    His tales in wonder

    And it rains petals
    Everytime a poem is
    Weaved from tragedy

    -a poetic wallflower-

    ©raika

  • raika_ 3w

    Spiritual. You don't have to read this if you don't want to.

    Loosely inspired by Badshahi mosque and the hamd, Wohi Khuda Hai.

    Title by wallflower. Posting because of shafs. ��

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    ©raika_

  • raika_ 4w

    //I'm walking on a red road with broken dreams in my hand and a heavy cart tied to my shoulders//

    (Why all this? Because I kinda failed my dreams:))

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    ©raika_